


To Calm The Stormy Seas

by SkelosBadlands



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-23 22:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30062715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkelosBadlands/pseuds/SkelosBadlands
Summary: Hercule and his crew have plenty to contend with on Guarma as they support the workers' rebellion. After a hurricane strands five outlaws on the island, a chance encounter with the plantation's Senior Overseer draws Hercule down a dangerous, intriguing path.
Relationships: Hercule Fontaine/Levi Simon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!

The disheveled Americans sit around their small campfire, chatting and tending to injuries received in the storm. Hercule watches from the trees while he tries to decide whether or not to approach them. He catches some of their names: Dutch, Arthur, Javier. They seem harmless, but based on some of the conversation he overhears, they’re on the run for a serious crime. Several times they mention chartering a boat back to the States after lying low for a while, and part of him thinks maybe that is an actual possibility. After all, it’s unlikely that they will have any interest in the rebellion or Fussar’s exploits. As he pieces together more of their story, however, it occurs to him that the tyrant might be eager to use the outlaws for some kind of gain. If they’re wanted for bank robbery and murder, they’ll be worth hanging on to. He needs to at least warn them about the situation on the island, before—

Faint noises filter to him from the jungle, and he freezes. At first it’s only a rustling that could be anything, but then he hears hushed voices and the distinctive thud of hooves hitting dirt. He stays motionless, thankful he hasn’t left cover.

A small patrol appears. The smoke from the fire must have attracted their attention. There are four uniformed men on foot, and a fifth man, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a black vest, is riding a mule. Hercule frowns when he recognizes the rider as Levi Simon. Three of the soldiers creep toward the edge of the flat rock overlooking the small camp, while Simon and the other man slowly pick their way down the ridge, passing within five meters of Hercule. They are taking care to be stealthy, even though the vigilance may be unnecessary—the Americans are thoroughly unaware as they continue to talk.

At last the Americans notice the rifles aimed at them, and they lift their hands. “Get these men in chains,” Simon commands in Spanish. There’s no struggle, since the men at the camp are unarmed, and the soldiers briskly shackle them to one another.

The dark-haired man called Dutch speaks up, prompting Simon to question him about their identities and how they ended up on Guarma. Dutch uses a false name that Simon scoffs at. He’s clearly planning on apprehending them regardless of any explanation they provide.

With the five men secured, Simon steers the mule south toward the beach. The soldiers prod and poke with their clubs to encourage the chain gang to walk, punctuating the jabs with shouts of _“_ _vamos.”_

“Let’s go!” Simon barks. “You got a long walk ahead of ya.”

Hercule carefully follows, keeping out of sight in the scrub at the end of the beach. It’s not difficult, with Simon staring straight ahead to guide the mule, and the soldiers preoccupied with harassing their captives.

“I can understand your caution, but is all of this really necessary?” Dutch asks.

“We’ve already got plenty of trouble around here,” Simon says. He offers up a description of Aguasdulces and the conflict with the rebels. Dutch’s responses are full of blatant sarcasm that Simon either misses or ignores. “A bunch of Haitian pirates won’t frighten Colonel Fussar!” he continues cheerfully. “They’ll be strung up in the streets soon enough.”

Hercule clenches his jaw, wishing he could knock the smug little overseer right off his mule. How can someone be so inhumane?

As the patrol and their chained charges proceed along the curve of the bay, Dutch persists in extracting information from Simon. For a while Simon answers amicably, but eventually his demeanor changes. His replies take on an edge, and are shorter, more curt. He even sits more stiffly in the saddle, squaring his shoulders as if he’s bracing them against a wall. Something has him agitated, but whatever it is escapes Hercule. Simon reaches up, like he’s brushing hair off his forehead. His hand lingers, rubbing either his temple or his eye. Hercule stifles a snort at his own dramatics, thinking, _So it’s humid and he’s uncomfortable, just like everyone else. And he’s running out of patience li_ _stening to Dutch wheedle. No big mystery._

A few minutes later, Simon abruptly switches to Spanish and tells the corporal to take the Americans to the jail in the compound, adding that if they cause trouble, they should all be shot. In English he merely says, “Welcome to Guarma, gentlemen. Now if you’ll excuse me…” He spurs the mule, increasing her pace slightly and heading for a trail that leads up an incline and into the jungle.

Hercule glances at the group. No one appears puzzled by the sudden departure. Maybe Simon always intended to split off here, but he suspects it was unplanned. Making an impulsive decision, he eases deeper into the coastal trees, cutting across the rocky terrain to reach the trail. He’s not going to be able to do anything for the Americans anyway, and it would be senseless to follow them all the way to the compound. He’ll see if he can figure out what Simon is up to.

It doesn’t take long to catch up. Simon follows the path for a bit, then veers off to the left. After hitching the mule to a low branch, he walks across a small clearing. Hercule narrows his eyes. What the hell is he doing? This isn’t exactly rebel-controlled territory, but it’s far from the safety of Aguasdulces. He assumes the stop is to pass water. Instead, Simon sits on the ground and leans against a tree.

Hercule carefully moves closer. It’s quieter without the crash of the waves, although the constant trill of birdsong and insect noise masks the sound of his footsteps. From this angle he can see Simon’s face. Something is wrong with him. His skin is ashen and glistening with sweat. Eyes tightly shut, he makes a frustrated noise and draws his knees up toward his chest. “Damn it,” he mutters, clutching at his head. “Goddamnit…”

The confusion clears somewhat as Hercule realizes he’s suffering from some kind of episode, probably a migraine. It makes sense that he stopped, considering Aguasdulces is at least forty-five minutes or an hour away, even on the mule. Still, it’s beyond foolish to stay out in the jungle alone, and it’s doubtful Simon is in any condition to defend himself.

It would be so effortless to kill him. He’s the Senior Overseer, for God’s sake, effectively Fussar’s right hand man, and responsible for so much of the misery the workers endure. And he just outright bragged to those shipwrecked Americans that the “pirates” will be executed if they’re captured. This is the perfect opportunity. Simon is always accompanied by a patrol of soldiers, or else secure inside the compound. There might never be another chance to catch him defenseless.

Drawing his knife, Hercule creeps even closer, until he’s a mere five meters away. As he watches, Simon drops his hands, curling them into fists and pushing them against his drawn-up knees. His eyes are still shut, but now there are tears streaming down his face. Whatever pain he’s experiencing must be agonizing. He groans, then murmurs something under his breath that’s too quiet to make out. He shoves his hair back behind his ears.

A strange, uneasy feeling is nagging at Hercule. He glances down at the gleaming blade in his hand, picturing it slicing into Simon’s throat. The uneasiness intensifies, repelling him, and he almost unconsciously sheathes the knife. Perhaps not even the hateful overseer deserves to die like this. _Stupid… if he found you helpless, do you think he’d have any compassion? Of course not. He’d rejoice, gleefully taking advantage of the situation._

After a few minutes, Simon puts his hands on his head again, pressing his fingers into his temples so hard it makes Hercule wince. He’s going to leave bruises if he doesn’t let up. It’s like he’s trying to drive out the pain by force, but the digging pressure can’t be much relief.

Simon opens his eyes and stirs. He shuffles around, kneeling in the dirt, without looking in Hercule’s direction. Bracing one hand against the tree, he covers his abdomen with the other. He bends forward, gagging, before finally vomiting. Hercule averts his eyes until the retching stops. When he looks back, Simon is swiping at his mouth in disgust. He spits a few times, and crawls awkwardly away from the mess.

“That’s just great,” Simon says, staring at the mule. “You idiot.”

Hercule guesses he’s looking at the canteen hooked to the saddle. The mule is hitched across the clearing, a distance of only ten meters or so, although that might seem like a kilometer to someone in excruciating pain. For an absurd moment he considers taking the water to him, but immediately thinks better of it. Simon’s Cattleman revolver is in his hip holster, and he can surely draw the gun given enough time to react, ailing or not. The last thing Hercule wants is to try to help and end up having to put him down.

With a grunt of effort, Simon climbs to his feet and slowly crosses the clearing. He grabs the canteen, patting the mule on the flank. “Good girl. Just a while longer.” After rinsing out his mouth, he returns to the shaded area. He lowers himself gingerly and curls up against a tree.

Having decided against killing him, Hercule is unsure of his next move. He should leave—there are a dozen things he could be doing besides spying on the stricken overseer. Disregarding his better judgment, he eases into a crouch, resigned to stay as long as he feasibly can.

At least a quarter of an hour passes. Simon rouses himself, grabbing the canteen and his hat before standing. He looks unsteady as he walks to the mule and untethers her. “Okay. Okay, let’s go home. If I can just…” He trails off, groaning. He holds onto the saddle as his knees buckle. “God, please, I just want to get back.” It takes obvious effort, but he manages to pull himself up and grab the reins. _“Yah,”_ he says, and the mule obediently trots back to the trail.

Hercule waits until they disappear from view, then stretches, shaking the pins and needles from his cramped legs. The sympathy he feels for Simon disturbs him, but he supposes if he were unaffected by the suffering of others, he would be better off on the opposite side of the revolution.

***

Later that evening, Hercule sits in the common area and mulls over everything he observed. He gave a full account of the Americans and their capture to the rest of his crew, leaving out his detour to spy on Simon. His reverie is interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Baptiste has taken a seat beside him without him even noticing.

“You have been distracted all day, Hercule. Is something the matter?”

“I’m just thinking about these Americans. Perhaps their arrival will distract Fussar from the rebellion for the time being.”

“It might, but the last thing this island needs is another complication. The situation is already like a tinderbox.”

“It certainly is,” Hercule agrees absently. “What do you know about migraines?”

Baptiste blinks, thrown off by the change in subject. “Not much. Why? Do you think you had one?”

“Ah… not me. One of the villagers had a bad headache, and he wasn’t sure what the difference is.”

“Well, he would have known if it was a migraine. I never had one, but they are usually much worse than headaches. They can last for days. Sensitivity to light and noise, pounding pain in the head.”

“Nausea?”

He eyes Hercule curiously. “Yes, I believe so. Does all of that sound like what he experienced?”

“Yeah,” Hercule says, wondering why he’s even still thinking about Simon and his troubles.

“Which villager?”

“Hmm? Oh, uh, it was… Ramón.”

Baptiste leans back against the chair and raises his eyebrows. “You mean Ramón the town doctor? He wasn’t sure whether or not he had a migraine?”

“I—well—” Before he can fumble for an explanation, Toussaint calls to them to let them know Leon has arrived for a meeting. Hercule flashes Baptiste a grin and hurries from the room, feeling his friend’s eyes on his back as he goes.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Hercule is in the village when Simon and four soldiers arrive. He ducks out of sight, unwilling to risk being recognized. From their grumblings, it is clear this is more than a routine patrol or supply run; the Americans somehow escaped the Aguasdulces jail and are causing nearly as much trouble for Fussar as the rebels. This is a logical place to start searching for them.

The soldiers question the villagers as Simon looks on. One of them corners Pedro, the man who runs the general store. Pedro isn’t helping, although it’s difficult to tell whether he’s truly ignorant or playing dumb. The soldier obviously believes it’s the latter. He looms over Pedro, repeatedly asking the same questions.

“I told you already, I don’t know,” Pedro says.

“You don’t know? Four white men and an English-speaking Mexican, and you _don’t know_ if they were here?”

“That’s right.”

The soldier sneers, shoving Pedro with a rough jab of his hand. “Maybe your memory needs a little help.”

“I said I don’t—”

“You are lying!” the soldier barks. He pushes Pedro again, then lifts the club from his belt.

Everyone in the small plaza is focused on the escalating scene. Including Simon, Hercule notes, as sour disgust turns his stomach. Simon stares at Pedro and the soldier, and the most distinct emotion on his face is faint amusement. His demeanor is in dramatic contrast to when he was stricken and barely able to walk, vomiting in the dirt. Any lingering pity Hercule feels for him vanishes.

The soldier says to Simon, “He knows something.”

After a brief pause, Simon inclines his head. “I guess we better persuade him to share. Go ahead, Corporal Guillen.”

Guillen nods, an ugly smile spreading on his face. “Hear that, you old cur?” he asks Pedro, casually twirling the club in his hand. “How much ‘persuading’ will you need?”

It takes all of Hercule’s willpower to keep from intervening. He figures he could take out at least three of them, but even the element of surprise wouldn’t allow him to kill all five.

Pedro holds up his hands. “All right! All right. The foreigners, yes, they came here.”

“When was this?” Guillen asks.

“Earlier this week, maybe three days ago.”

“And where are they now?”

“I don’t know.” He flinches when Guillen cracks the club against the stone well. “I’m telling the truth! None of them spoke Spanish aside from the Mexican, and they wanted food and some medical supplies.”

Guillen glances around the plaza. Some of the other villagers are nodding. “That’s all?”

“They asked about weapons. Guns, ammunition,” Pedro says. “But we have nothing like that for sale here.”

An older woman speaks up. “They wanted to know about ships, and if there was another port besides the one at Aguasdulces.”

Despite his obvious desire to hit someone, Guillen slowly returns the club to his belt. He looks at Simon and shrugs. “They could be anywhere.”

“We need to search all these buildings, in case they’re holed up here,” Simon says.

“No!” Pedro protests.

Simon saunters toward him. “It was not a request.”

“These are our homes! Those men are not here.”

“And soon enough we will see that for ourselves. Then we can leave you be.”

“You have no right to—”

“Pedro,” the old woman interrupts. “We have nothing to hide. Let them look.”

Flapping his hand dismissively, Pedro backs down. “I suppose they will look anyway.”

While the soldiers divvy up areas to search, a shadow of apprehension clouds Simon’s face. His rigid, authoritative posture doesn’t change, but there’s a definite pinched quality to his expression, like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. He furrows his brow, shaking his head a little. After a few seconds he reaches up to rub at his left eye.

“Mr. Simon?” Guillen says.

“What?”

“Is there a problem?”

Simon drops his hand. “Everything is fine. You and the men search the village, then get the things on the list. I have to go check on something at the guard outpost.”

“By yourself?” Guillen says, frowning.

“Yes.”

“Should we wait here for you?”

“I don’t know how long it will take. Just head back to the compound when you’re finished.”

“As you like,” Guillen says dubiously. He directs the others to begin the search.

Once the soldiers head off and the small crowd disperses, Simon goes to the mule and grabs his canteen. He gives his head another shake, blinking as if he’s trying to clear his vision, then furtively glances around to see if anyone noticed. Hercule wonders if Fussar and the rest know about the migraines. Somehow he doubts it; Simon presents an impression of austere competence, and the way he’s behaving suggests the affliction is a secret. Could he really lie low for the duration of each attack without any questions being asked?

Canteen in hand, Simon heads down the path toward the coast. Hercule checks the village. There’s no sign of the soldiers, so he starts down the path in pursuit.

Simon turns south just shy of the inlet. If he’s got a headache coming on, he won’t risk running into anyone at the outpost. There’s some ruins about fifty meters off the path, no more than the stone foundations of long-destroyed buildings, and that’s where he stops. Muttering to himself, he sits in the shade, leaning against a partially surviving wall. Hercule has a clear view, and he’s in plenty of shadow himself.

Aside from appearing agitated and sipping from his canteen, Simon isn’t doing much. Hercule could slip away and quit wasting time.

Suddenly, Simon tenses. It’s hard to tell at first, with the way he’s sitting, but his arms stiffen, hands curling into fists, and his shoulders draw back like he’s pushing against the wall. A plaintive noise that’s almost a whimper escapes his throat, and he reaches up to take off his hat. _“Pathetic,”_ Simon says sharply. “Pathetic and weak.” He drops the hat next to the canteen and then removes his gloves. The taut, raised tendons on the backs of his hands are visible. He rubs at his eyes, and eventually he moves his hands to his temples.

Intruding like this is wrong. Hercule has to get out of here. He takes a small step backward, and his foot lands on a branch that breaks with a crisp _snap._

Simon’s head jerks up, his eyes instantly finding Hercule. For a moment they gawk at each other. Recovering first, Hercule grabs his pistol, aims it, and cocks the hammer in a series of smooth motions. He expects the other man to draw as well, forcing him to shoot. Instead, Simon simply glances down at his holster, then shuts his eyes, still holding the sides of his head.

Frowning, Hercule waits, keeping the pistol steady on Simon’s chest. This is ridiculous—he should end this now. Even if the soldiers locate the gunshot’s origin, he’ll be long gone before they arrive. But shooting a man whose eyes are closed and whose hands are empty is unappealing. “Lift your hands higher, slowly,” he says finally.

“My head…”

“I have to take your gun. Do as I say.”

Simon raises his arms and presses his hands against the stone, palms facing outward. He looks docile enough. In case it’s an act, Hercule edges closer without letting down his guard.

“Don’t move,” Hercule says, reaching to retrieve the gun. It would be suicide for Simon to try something now, but he might be willing to risk it if he believes he’s going to die anyway. “Is this it?”

“What?”

“Do you have a knife or anything?”

“Just the gun.” Simon pauses. “Why ain’t you shooting me?”

“I don’t know,” Hercule answers honestly. “I thought about it. You keep wandering off by yourself, and that is very stupid.” In response to Simon’s puzzled expression, Hercule clarifies, “I also saw you north of El Nido the day you found those Americans.”

“How?”

“I followed you when you left the patrol. I wanted to know where you were going alone. You were very sick, so I left you be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I didn’t think you would.”

Furrowing his brow, Simon asks, “What are you talking about?”

“I doubt you have much use for mercy. Luckily for you, I don’t feel the same way.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Hercule smiles humorlessly. “I know you work for a tyrant, and you don’t care who you hurt. You are cruel and self-serving.”

“That’s not all I am.”

There’s no point in arguing. Simon isn’t going to change, no matter what Hercule says or how many times he spares him. “Does anyone else know about the migraines?”

“No. They’re embarrassing. None of them would respect me if they ever saw me like _this._ ”

Hercule studies him—clammy skin, eyes heavily-lidded to avoid the light, the way he’s curled around himself—and says, “They are the only human thing about you.” Simon bristles at that and ignores him. “Would you like me to stay until you’re ready to leave?” Hercule asks.

“Do whatever you want, just quit talking.”

Hercule settles down, leaning against the wall. Simon sits rigidly, just as before, but now he’s conscious of being observed. Watching him sweat and shift in discomfort irritates Hercule. What the hell is he doing on Guarma? Couldn’t he find a job in America, somewhere in a modern city with conveniences and doctors and people he wouldn’t have to hide his affliction from? The only explanation is greed, and maybe the opportunity to indulge in cruelty without fear of punishment. Guarma certainly offers a refuge for both of those vices.

“This must be a real treat for you,” Simon suddenly snaps. “I bet you’re savoring this.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Right.”

Hercule decides if picking a fight is more important than avoiding noise, he’ll humor him. “I’m not the one who enjoys seeing others suffer.”

“You got no right to judge me. All of you came here to smuggle things to the workers, and now you’re inciting a rebellion.”

“Ah yes, we’re the bad guys because we’re helping your slaves.”

“They aren’t _slav_ _es_ ,” Simon says, tilting his head so he can scowl at Hercule. “They’re prisoners. Criminals, indentured servants.”

“You can call them what you like, but that doesn’t change what they are.”

Raising his voice, Simon says, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He winces, and his hand drifts up to rub at his temple.

“Anyway, even criminals—” A flash of light catches Hercule’s eye, and he looks closer. There are two rings dangling from one of the leather cords Simon is wearing around his neck. With a chill, he realizes they are wedding bands, one gold and one silver, both much too large for Simon’s fingers. “What are those?”

Simon pushes one side of his shirt over the necklaces and avoids Hercule’s gaze.

“Whose rings are those?”

“Lower your voice,” Simon says, wincing.

“Answer my damn question!”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Hercule grabs the leather cord and yanks it out of the loose collar. The rings jingle against each other. “Who did you take them from? They don’t belong to you.”

“They do now. Let go.”

He tugs the cord harder so the leather digs against the side of Simon’s throat. “You stole these from workers?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Hercule forces himself to drop the necklace. The rings hit Simon’s chest with dull thuds.

“I took them from rebels,” Simon says.

“Rebels you hanged?”

Simon shakes his head. “No. They’re in the jail. They were caught trying to arm the workers.”

“What’s the matter with you? You stole _wedding bands,_ for God’s sake.” Simon’s only response is a defiant glare, and Hercule laughs shortly. “You really aren’t human.”

“Shut up!” Simon shouts. “Quit saying I’m not a human!” Raw pain immediately eclipses the anger twisting his face. He grabs at his head with both hands, his fingers hooked like claws to dig in. “Oh God,” he says, then moans, shutting his eyes tightly. “God, it hurts.”

They sit without speaking, the only sound between them the whimpers that Simon can’t suppress. When he doesn’t open his eyes or relax his posture, Hercule becomes concerned. “Simon?”

“Don’t.”

Simon’s fingertips are making indentations in the skin, and Hercule automatically pulls both of his hands away. “You’ll injure yourself,” he murmurs.

“My head is gonna explode.”

“It just feels that way.” He reaches out, and Simon flinches. “Easy, easy, I won’t hurt you. Let’s see if this helps.”

“What are you going to do?” Simon asks, staring at Hercule warily.

“I’ll rub your temples for a little. That might relieve some of the pressure.”

“It won’t work. I’ve tried it.”

“Close your eyes again.”

Simon stubbornly keeps his eyes open. They’re bloodshot and tearing up from the light sensitivity. Comfort triumphs over defiance, and he finally shuts his eyes. Without a word, Hercule presses his fingers against Simon’s temples. He uses small circles as he massages.

After about a minute, Simon’s shoulders lose some of the tension keeping them rigid, and he takes a deep breath. His brow is furrowed, and his hands are still clenched, but the wild spike of pain has passed. Hercule focuses on his temples for a while longer, then lifts his fingers from the thin skin. He lowers his hands to Simon’s shoulders, and the instant he makes contact with his neck, Simon jumps and his eyes flutter open. He squints at Hercule suspiciously.

“Did I hurt you?” Hercule asks.

“No. I need to get back. I’m fine now.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yeah.” He shifts away, looking uncomfortable.

“I only wanted to help, you know.”

“Just let me go,” Simon says. “I’m none of your concern. Unless you finally decide to kill me, I guess.” He puts on his hat and gloves, then snatches up the canteen from the ground. His movements are rushed and jerky. “Give me my gun.”

He hands it over, then pointedly rests a hand on his own pistol, still partially expecting Simon to take a shot at him. Simon snorts, shaking his head as he holsters the revolver.

Maybe he realized he was letting his guard down and panicked; Hercule wouldn’t blame him in that case. Finding yourself humanizing your enemy is disorienting.

“Take care of yourself,” Hercule says.

Simon shoots him an incredulous look, not bothering to reply. He walks through the ruins toward the trail.


End file.
